


Don't Beard The Lion In His Den

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Egypt, And Daryl has a pet falcon instead of a crossbow, Belly Dancing, Crocodile Shane, M/M, Necromancy, One Shot, Pharaoh Daryl, Slave Rick, This is weird, Yes you read that right, not gonna lie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-07 14:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4266477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daryl, the Pharaoh of Egypt, gets his hands on a very wild man slave named Rick, whom he learns was actually captured and thrown into slavery against his will. Being the merciful ruler that he is, Daryl promises to disenthrall Rick. But first, there's a price: if Rick can succeed in entertaining him, he's a free man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Beard The Lion In His Den

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, you know, one of those weird and random ideas that hits unexpectedly and won't let you rest until it's written.
> 
> Just a heads up, the dialogue will retain the characters' Southern accents, etc... because we don't actually know how to write, well, _Egyptian_.
> 
> Also, we tried giving everyone Egyptian names, but while we were writing we were like, "OMG, WHO DA'FAQ IS THIS AGAIN?!" so their original names are staying, with an occasional title or house attached to the end... Umm, enjoy?
> 
> (P.S. This was written on a phone, then submitted via a laptop that has seen better days. If there are any errors, please forgive them.)

A lingering humidity hung in the balance of the innermost chamber of the Egyptian citadel, air sweet like olive oil, yet salty like a sea breeze. Heaps of steam rose up from the hammam—the heated stone reservoir—like a mirage at meridian noon. Daryl, the Pharaoh of Egypt, lazed fully in the nude, floating languidly in the center of the pool. The ripples around his body lapped at his goatee and the backs of his ears like waves on a distant shore. Closing his eyes and exhaling in a relaxed manner, he finally allowed himself to slip beneath the surface to wet his hair and face.

He was housed under no longer than a few beats of his heart, but during his submersion his senses became in-tune with the hollowness of the water. He listened as the reverberations there amplified and sounds echoed beneath as if it was linked to the entrance of the underworld. The thought itself was a frightening one, and he didn’t dare stay long enough to tempt the gods. Slipping up ever so gracefully from the watery realm, he emerged to a stand. Droplets trickled from his skin like tears and sweat as he did, gently rejoining the oily swell of the bath. He combed his fingers through his dark mane to clear his sight of hair. His bangs were long enough to act as curtains if not parted correctly or swept to the side.

The light danced on the pool’s surface the same way sunlight would shimmer through a prism as he found himself staring upon it. The black kohl around his almond eyes almost made him look like a cat in man’s clothing, the corners smearing from the room’s temperature and the humidity drawn by the pool. Standing tall, the water fell just under his navel, darkening the hair of his happy trail and bringing the threadlike strands there closer together. He spat whatever taste of minerals were dousing over his lips before whistling at his preferred servant girl, Beth of Afrikaisi, to approach.

Beth’s face lit up at the request and she rose eagerly from where she had been waiting patiently. As she entered the pool with her jug of diluted wine, the skirt of her white kalasiris soaked the water up like linen. The deeper she waded the more the fabric took in and the more translucent it became, taking on a color similar to the skin of onions. She gestured forth the cup she had also brought with her once she was standing within accepting distance, and after Daryl received it she proceeded to steadily pour him a drink. She used both of her hands as if she was making a contribution to the gods, eyes humbly cast downward.

Daryl grunted his approval as the pouring ceased, his cup now full, and as Beth tucked a loose strand of her honey-colored hair behind her ear in a show of her concluded duty, he lifted the rim to his lips and took the liquid into his mouth. Drinking, he swallowed like a camel. There was more plum trickling down his chin and brooking over his bare chest than running into his gullet amidst his chugging and thirsty pursuit. He was half a ways from finishing his cup when the huge doors to the hammam groaned open on the opposite side of the room revealing Joe, his scribe.

Shane, who was standing on guard next to the stone porticos of the citadel, was the quickest to react to the intrusion. His head was finely shaved for such a climate as the arid sands surrounding the city, his chest brawn and bare to show off his power, and he strut towards Joe without a blink to spare. Being from the house of Sobek, also the overseer of the Pharaoh’s army, he was bred for battle and action.

“You there.” Shane planted his hand firmly on Joe’s chest. The force didn’t go unnoticed by either men, nor the shabby stranger being escorted inside the room behind Joe by two guards. “That’s far enough.”

“Thought I told ya not to bother me today.” Daryl handed his cup back to Beth after downing what was left of the liquid in one mouthful. He motioned her away with a dismissive wave and watched as she departed before facing Joe with his full attention. “Unless you’re here to tell me that the dead have invaded the city, then I don’ wanna see ya here.”

The term ‘necromancy’ went unvoiced, but it was understood by all who knew to fear it, which were those near and far. After all, summoning the dead was a sinister and dark art that had once covered the land with hundreds—if not thousands—of walking corpses. It wasn’t as prevalent in today’s era as it was long ago, but time meant nothing to crime. Looters were cast wide, places a many and followers a plenty. According to the teller of all time, the sundial erected in the courtyard out front of the citadel, the last attack on the imperial tomb had been three-hundred-and-sixty-five nights ago. Among the countless jewels and procession offerings to the gods that were stolen, the Book of the Dead itself was rapined from its prophesied resting place by an unknown band of brigands and from that day forth its recovery and location had been unsuccessful.

“Pardon the intrusion, my pharaoh.” Joe bowed his head to show bitter respect before nodding towards the stranger who was escorted into the room with him. This stranger’s robes were threadbare, but he was better dressed than rags, meaning he had some trade. “But I caught this travelin’ merchant tryin’ to smuggle a consignment of slaves through our city gates.”

“Did’ya now?” Daryl lifted a brow. His interest was clearly seen but, as his face showed, he was also slightly skeptical.

The feeling was solely his to account for, of course, but with reason. Joe had already fibbed a few times during his rise to scribe, locked an innocent man away for no rhyme but to make him suffer, so Daryl wasn’t ready to fully believe him just by words alone. He wanted proof and disregarded Shane’s bothered look. The look had no voice behind it, but it spoke for itself. Daryl silently understood that he needn’t waste his time gawking at a line-up of slaves or energy pursuing the matter, but he was too curious not to follow up.

“Show me.” Daryl said.

On command, a few more guards packed into the hammam like jackals. Behind them were brought a rope of slaves, all hands bound and filed one after the other. They were bestowed before the pharaoh and ordered upon their bellies. Most men were made of skin and bones, some of complexions colored as gray as ash from a firepit, and Daryl almost thought himself bored until his eyes fell upon one man in particular out of the line prostrated before him.

This man, the one with curls stained as black as a starless night from all the sweat drenching his hair, skin like hide laid out in the sun to brown, and a beard more stone-gray than umber, didn’t seem at all like the rest of the men. Something about him was different. He had an exuberance about him the others were missing, either from age or cowardice. Daryl noticed the liveliness even more as he watched as this particular slave tried to resist the order of the guards by keeping himself standing. The man’s defiance was admirable, however unwelcomed by those higher in position, but it wasn’t long before he was forcibly brought into submission.

In a harsh shove, the slave went down to his knees. His grunt was loud, and it took two guards thereafter to subdue him into the required position. A few good twists were managed before the slave’s belly started to rub at the ground like a serpent’s, and Daryl shivered inwardly when catching a glimpse of the man’s eyes. Although obscured by spiraling bangs a many, Daryl could see that they were piercing like a cobra’s. They held a certain meanness to them, also a feistiness that didn’t waver even after being shoved to the ground with little regard, and Daryl was charmed to them in an instant.

“Him.” Daryl pointed towards the line-up of slaves as he began wading out of the hammam. He conquered the stone steps heedlessly, unbothered in the least that he was emerging completely naked. “Bring ‘im forward.”

Every single slave in the line looked up at the demand and those that found themselves unchosen wore faces of relief. Of them, the one slave that had Daryl’s interest was included, but as Daryl focused his point and Shane confirmed it with a nod and the snap of two fingers, the man’s face paled.

“What? No… No!”

It took a second more for the slave to realize that it was _he_ who was being chosen, and as he was hoisted off the ground by the very same two guards that put him there in the first place his resistance was on par with that of a stubborn mule. He refused to move his feet on his own and had to have them dragged behind his body like stones until he was forced into a presentable kneel. This one before the pharaoh.

“You don’t understand! I… I was crossin’ the border when I was grabbed! I’m not a slave! I’m not supposed to be here!”

Shane let out a hearty laugh at the slave’s ramble, stealing the attention of every person in the room. He had heard similar tales from individuals whom he considered far more reliable sources, most of which unexpectedly turned out to be wastebaskets of falsehood, and he wasn’t looking to lengthen his list of mistakes. As the pharaoh’s right hand, it was required of him to be a good judge of character, pick up on the levels of fear and read bodily cues when the time called for it. In the past, he wasn’t as cautious as he was in today’s domain, but that was because he was green with power. He thought he knew better, and the embarrassment of his former negligence was like a scar that never healed. It was still tender and sore to Shane’s pride even during present days, and he wasn’t planning on feeding such failure again as he walked his way over to stand in front of the slave. Respectively and protectively, his back was kept to Daryl like a line between two countries.

“Wrong place, wrong time, huh?” Shane flexed his hands concentratively by his sides.

Behind him, Daryl watched unaffectedly as the nape of Shane’s neck rippled in sections like silk fluttering in the wind. There was a low but shifting sound that followed, like bones rearranging, and moments later Shane’s head morphed into that of a crocodile’s.

“That’s what they all say!” Shane snapped.

At Shane’s sudden and frightening transformation, those who weren’t aware of his relation to the house of Sobek or didn’t know of his ability—or equally those who knew but still found his Apotropaic magic other-worldly—reacted to his presence in a prayer-like fashion. A few standing guards fell to one knee to give him praise like a deity. Others cowered and tucked their faces away in pure fear. But not the slave who had been brought forth. He was the closest, yet his chin was merely tucked to his chest in protection of his neck, like he thought it was where Shane would strike first, and not once did he look away from the crocodile. Instead, he stared it down.

The notion itself was what many would undoubtedly consider an unwise move, and as if enticed by it Shane snarled like a ravage beast. The sound squeezed out from behind his jaws of enormous size rumbled like distant thunder, and it succeeded in drawing a flinch from the slave. Shane sought to continue out of hunger for respect, but he immediately backed off when sensing his pharaoh’s intentions of approaching, and by the time he stepped to the side to let Daryl pass his head had returned to normal.

“What’s yer name?” Daryl asked. One of his servants close at hand tried to tie a silk shendyt around his waist to conceal his nudity, but was waved off. “Come on, ya gotta have one.”

The slave tilted his head like an acknowledged dog would a command, but made no effort to reply. Up close he smelled of exotic fruit, the sun, and the Nile… Daryl liked him even more.

“The pharaoh asked you a question.” Shane demanded after a few more seconds of the rebellious silence continued.

“Rick.” The slave finally said, voice as dry as sand. “Rick of Asar.”

“Asar? Where the hell’s that?” Shane snorted.

Rick looked like he had something cheeky to covey with how his upper lip twitched, but at the slightest notion of what quarrel it could bring he clammed up and looked away.

Daryl studied Rick silently for a minute, well-aware that Rick was watching him out of the corner of his eye.

“How much?” Daryl asked the room. When he didn’t get an immediate answer he turned around to the forgotten merchant in the doorway, who was now blocked from leaving by a handful of guards.

“ _How much_!” Shane repeated for the pharaoh, tone barking.

Joe shared a few words with the merchant. “Twenty pieces of silver.” Joe relayed.

“Give ‘im fifty.” Daryl said.

Rick twisted his head back towards Daryl with an expression of disbelief and offense, eyes narrow, lips parted, but tongue speechless. He didn’t look at all pleased about being bought against his will.

“Fifty for one slave?” Shane furrowed his brow at Daryl. “You sure?”

“Mhm.” Daryl nodded as he turned away from the line-up of slaves on the axis of a crescent moon. “Now leave me.” He dismissed before pointing to another one of his servants at the back of the room. “You.” He directed that servant’s attention towards Rick with the same finger. “Shave him clean, then bring him back to me.”

“Does that apply to his pubis as well, my pharaoh?” The servant charged with the task asked, knowing of Daryl’s preference for smooth men but unclear of the lengths to go.

Many palace others also knew of the preference, but as common as the request was the satisfaction levels differed on occasion and mood. Sometimes it was both the chest and facial hair. Other days it was simply one or the other. Daryl didn’t really feel like he had a greater liking towards either on this day. He was more or less focused on taming that wild beard Rick had growing. To be fair, it probably looked attractive some time ago but as of now, with the hair there appearing as fertile as an oasis in the desert, it was taking up a good portion of his face. It wasn’t to say it was unattractive. It just simply had to go.

“My pharaoh?” The servant cleared his throat against the silence.

Daryl pondered the hanging question a little harder and glanced down at his own front as he thought.

“Nah, leave it.” Daryl decided and in one, mighty push he exited the double doors of the hammam, heading for his private bedroom with a small smirk on his lips. “I can fist it when I get bored.”

☞☝☞☝☞☝☞☝☞☝☞☝☞

A jackal cried out somewhere over the rippling sand dunes of the desert as eventide fell across the land like a silk spread of pure Egyptian blue. The torched rushlights along the corridor walls inside the citadel burned brightly, the flames on the ends of the tallowed piths dancing almost possessively as they intercepted the riptide-like draft caused by the opening of the pharaoh’s bedroom doors. Controlled air met nightly air and a great groan escaped from the hinged entrance in signal of arrival. Looking away from the starry view outside the window, Daryl, no longer nude but clothed, expectantly turned towards the place of passage.

“My pharaoh.” The servant in the doorway bowed once. Behind him the slave who had called himself Rick was also present.

Daryl nodded to approve of the intrusion.

Understanding the nonverbal gesture as permission to approach, the servant ushered Rick, whose wrists were newly bound behind his back, ahead of him.

“Your slave.” The servant said and then disappeared shortly without another word.

The domesticated falcon in the corner of the room stirred from its perch as the bedroom doors were once again closed. It shrieked loudly in alarm, as it was trained to do so, but was quickly hushed by its master.

“Shh. Easy there, Montu.” Daryl cooed, tongue clicking in a coax.

In recognition of the voice, the bird flapped its wings. It calmed immediately after, and once it returned to being silent Daryl proceeded to lessen the distance between himself and Rick. He moved in slowly and observed closely, taking notice of how the man hadn’t budged a muscle from where he was abandoned by the servant and how the man’s cheekbones were no longer shrouded by a mess of facial hair as thick as seaweed.

“Lemme get a look at’cha.” Daryl motioned for Rick to spin around in a circle for him, but the request wasn’t obeyed.

Rick stubbornly stood his ground, eye-line as straight as a road. There were no seen indications of compliance, least of all the production of movement, so Daryl alone circled Rick. It was far from required of him as a ruler to make such a belittling effort, but he didn’t really mind it. He actually took a certain enjoyment in defied conventions. It was more his manner of style and as he rounded closer and closer like a scavenger vulture getting ready to feast on carrion, he was pleased to find Rick looking better than he ever imagined a man could. He was beautiful, almost a decade younger than when he first saw him.

“Huh… Ya really ain’t a slave.” Daryl said aloud. He eased to a stop behind Rick to admire the bareness of his back. Aside from being shaven clean, he was equally dressed in the wear of the palace, a simple shendyt. It paled in comparison to those finer and worn by royalty, but its purpose was serving nonetheless.

“And what makes you say that?” Rick spoke over his shoulder, head turned slightly. His question sounded like a torch touching water with how hissy it was asked.

“Yer body.” Daryl snatched at Rick’s hands and turned one over to hunt for evidence of his claim. “All ya got is dirt under yer nails.” Letting the hand pull away, he slapped at Rick’s back. The skin there was so taut it muted any rebound. “No scars here, nothin’. Never knew a slave who didn’t have at least one, and since you ain’t legal property…” Daryl’s voice trailed as he ran a set of fingers over the visible knots of Rick’s spine, then the ropes. “It looks like I’m gonna have’ta let ya go.”

Feeling the binds loosen and fall to the ground, Rick lurched forward. He turned around quickly and questioningly, fingers rubbing at his wrists. The corner of his gorgeous, blue eyes were wide, like his prayers had just been answered by the gods. Free. He was _free_. The word set in like a hopeful bubble rising above waves of misfortune black as tar, and when it popped Rick couldn’t keep his emotions from surfacing with it.

“I, I don’t know what to say…” Rick said, overwhelmed. He almost couldn’t bring himself to look Daryl in the eyes, but after a sudden breath of courage, he did. “Thank you.”

“Don’t.” Daryl said as he turned and walked towards his bed.

A short breeze fluffed the silk drapes hanging against the foothold there, creating a brushing sound like straw in the wind. Their cloth was a color as vibrant as pomegranate seeds and ornamented the resting place like a shawl upon shoulders. At the foot of the bed, there was a pile of pillows sorted like a rough and ready lounge. Daryl stopped here and dropped to the floor to laze. He went down one palm at a time, and as he reclined on his side he reached out for the hose to his hookah.

“You’re still mine fer the night. I paid fer ya, so you’ll do as I say.” Daryl took a long suck from the nozzle of the hose, swishing the smoke and taste of shisha—the syrupy tobacco—around his mouth.

Rick’s face hardened like stone. “And if I refuse?” He looked around the room. His eyes didn’t linger long on anything in particular, but when there was no answer they flashed to Daryl with a squint.

“Ya don’ got much of a choice.” Daryl emptied his lungs of whatever smoke he took into his body before siding the hose, rolling off his side and onto his back. Settling, he intertwined his fingers like fishing nets behind his head as a sort of prop for his neck.

“I have a wife.” Rick said.

“So?”

Rick mulled over Daryl’s uncaring tone. “You always get what you want?”

“Uh-huh.” Daryl made himself comfier with a little scoot and soon pointed at Rick with a toe. “Now entertain me.” He commanded and admired how Rick tried to look anywhere but him again.

“By doin’ _what_ , exactly?”

In pondering, Daryl glanced around his room for a suggestion. His eyes wandered over the lithographs written into wall, the ones telling of precedent victories like a storybook without words. “I dunno.” He finally said. “How about you belly dance fer me?”

Rick’s jaw tensed. It almost looked like he wanted to complain that it was a woman’s job to entertain that way, that Daryl could easily gather up a few girls to do so if he wanted to see a performance that badly. But at the same time, Rick also appeared to be sucked dry of his rebellious nature, like a beast gone lame from a hunt.

“Fine.” Rick said, then pointed a very straight finger towards the untied ropes coiled by his feet. “I do what you say, and by mornin’ I’m gone.”

Nodding, Daryl soon pulled one hand out from behind his head and motioned for Rick to take the floor again. Acceptance of the terms was in the action itself and, after realizing this, Rick complied. He steadied his nerves and began with a breath. It was a deep inhale that expanded his chest and was gone before he started to reel his pelvis in circles, arms up and over his head. Each movement was jerky at first, out of sync with each other and inexperienced, but with a little more force and concentration Rick was soon flowing. His ribcage swelled with every provocative undulation of his body and deflated accordingly, and without even being fully conscious of it Daryl was influenced by the motions.

When Rick sucked in, Daryl sucked in, and as Rick’s movement grew more forthcoming, Daryl began to envisage the ocean as Rick’s body. It was lively enough, predictable, yet proposing change and mystery. Rick’s hipbones were a good example of this. Like rocks stolen by the tide they were, popping forward in definition and then disappearing under the rim of his shendyt with each accentuated roll of his hips time and time again. They moved as if driven by a song of their own. No such music was playing for Daryl to compare them to, no dumbak or flute accompanying or complementing Rick’s movements, but the breaths Rick took after each oscillation and gyration, however shallow or harsh, were rhythmic alone. Daryl was mesmerized by them from start to finish, and hardly found himself listening as Rick concluded his roiling performance and slowed to a stop.

“Well?” Rick panted. His chest was heavy with breath, skin gleaming with sweat like bract.

“Well?” Daryl repeated. He was ready to lie twice to see such entertainment again, but couldn’t bring himself to say anything forthrightly out of pride. “Well, nothin’.” He snorted and, after some fast thinking, pretended to be disappointed. “What the hell was that?”

Rick looked confused. “What you asked for.”

“I said belly dance, not act _possessed_.”

Rick’s cheeks flushed a beautiful red, making him look as though he’d been touched by the solar deity, Ra, himself. “Then you should’ve gotten a real dancer.”

“Or at least given ya somethin’ ya knew how’ta do.” Daryl corrected and tried not to smile. “What’re ya good with, Rick?”

“My hands.” Rick answered, unthinking twice.

“Al’right. Then I wanna see ‘em on me.” Daryl motioned at himself with the flick of his chin. There was a moment’s worth of hesitation on Rick’s face, and it didn’t go unnoticed. “The mornin’ ain’t here yet.” Daryl reminded before lifting his arm and summoning Rick to step forward.

Seeing no other choice but to conform to the request, Rick went forth. His bare feet scuffed the ground as though weighted by sandstone, not just obligation, and as soon as he was close enough his wrist was nabbed and lost to surprise. Daryl held onto it gently but intently, and with a small tug he pulled Rick downwards. Gravity played its part from then on, and in due time Rick was sprawled between Daryl’s legs. The position was planned it seemed, but still ungainly in the way it happened. Daryl didn’t seem affected by it in the slightest, but Rick was shaken and instinctively made a grab for the sharp end of the hookah hose.

At the sense of danger Montu shrieked and, like sound, Daryl was fast. He rolled Rick in the direction opposite the hose and let their rotation continue until he had the man’s hands pinned headward, which ultimately had their positions swapped by the end of it.

Rick, now under by Daryl, ground his teeth at the tables turned. His chest rose and fell with overexertion, and he grunted from the back of his throat as he tried to squirm out of the hold and away from the mass of Daryl’s body.

“‘Ey. Don’t ya forget yer place.” Daryl warned. It wasn’t obvious by tone, but he was actually intrigued at Rick’s feeble attempt to stab him.

For one to even try inflicting harm to the pharaoh was a rarity, but once in a blue moon hate was known to drive minds to foolishness. Fear was also a common vessel for lacked judgement, but depending on the damage done forgiveness was effectual. Shane never saw to it, but seeing as the world would be too few without it, Daryl was partial to second chances. Trust was obviously a regarded factor for such a privilege, but he had much to believe in with this slave. Rick, as Daryl saw, was only trying to protect himself, and although using further caution was considered as silence marched for a time, it was decided to remain unenforced.

Simply, the reciprocation of their panting was enough to run any malice out of the air, and as the rushlights on the wall started to dim one-by-one like fireflies sensing daybreak, leaving them both shrouded in a muted atmosphere of blue, Daryl used the moment to study Rick’s face. He fixated downward, taking in the reddening of Rick’s eyes and the emotion in them that refused to fall as tears. The man looked to be fighting some internal storm, and as Daryl studied deeper he found something else in Rick’s interest. It could have been anything, but Daryl self-prescribed it as he saw fit, which was lust.

Rick was _lustful_ in his returned stare. He couldn’t be anything other than that, even if his mouth was tightly pinched in a line and his nostrils were flaring with the same intensity of a raging bull.

Believing only this, Daryl let his eyes explore Rick’s body further, taking in every youthful curve, every pulse of the man’s heart he could see thrumming in his chest as they both laid half atop the pillows and half upon the marble tiles. Rick looked as idyllic as a sunrise on the horizon below him, and entranced, Daryl bent forward. Rick’s forehead crumpled with disinterest at Daryl’s initiated kiss, and when Daryl motioned again Rick resorted to tucking his chin so their lips couldn’t meet. The display was impressionable and made Rick look absolutely desirable.

 _Like somethin’ to be won_ , Daryl thought and after a little more coaxing he finally stole the mouth he’d been longing to taste since noon. As expected, Rick clammed up further like a shellfish, but Daryl drew a hand up and over the right side of Rick’s bare thigh, then between the man’s legs in an attempt to get him to open up a little more and let him in. After two of his fingers found and teased Rick’s tight hole, success was immediate.

Rick gasped. “What’re you doin’—” His back arched off the pillows like a minuscule pyramid.

“What I want.” Daryl said and was satisfied to discover that the phrase sounded just as flowery as the taste that came from inside Rick’s mouth when he pushed his tongue into it.

Like an oasis breeze, there was a glorious heat that rushed forth, on it the flavor of sweetness and vapor. Rick tried to steal back whatever of him was lost to Daryl’s greed with another gasp, but Daryl wouldn’t see to it. He was persistent and unconcerned about befalling harm, and although the hassle to keep Rick steady was great, the final merit was rewarding all the same.

There was no more resistance to be had from Rick after a third gasp. His fingers merely hesitated around Daryl’s shoulders before moving to wind up the silk drapes canopying from the foot of the bed as a python would a tree. Higher they slithered the more he was fondled, the hardened calluses on his palms like rough scales with how they caught each finely woven thread of the fabric, and for the rest of the night Daryl fought a smile every time Rick befuddled a groan against his throat during their twists and turns on the floor like nesting snakes. As a fair ruler, he would bid farewell to Rick on the morning of tomorrow, but they had a night’s worth of activities to accomplish before then.

And Daryl was determined to milk this man of all his money’s worth and energy.

Every last drop.


End file.
